How Do You Say ‘Non-Binary’ in Chinese?

Weddings bring out the best parts of family. They also bring out the most complicated parts. As members of the Asian diaspora, we are straddling two worlds and cultures, and planning a wedding can feel like walking a tightrope between your identity and cultural, and familial expectations. For queer people, the balancing act can be even more complex.

Pride Month is a celebration of identity, but it’s also a reminder of the courage it takes to be fully seen, especially by family. In this deeply personal piece, Luke shares their experience coming out to a traditional Asian-American family. It’ll resonate with anyone balancing cultural heritage and personal truth.

I grew up in a predominately Asian community, and I didn’t have many openly queer friends at school. Within my family, the subject of queerness was looked at as a divergence. I grew up using the term “gay” as a derogatory term. When it came to transgender people, there was little to no discussion on what transness meant or the idea of being transgender.

The pandemic hit hard in 2020. Like many others, I had to stay indoors all day during the pandemic, and during that time, I spent a lot of time on self-introspection. I thought a lot about my own identity as an Asian American due to the rise in anti-Asian hate during the pandemic. I also thought about my gender identity during this time, and I started to learn about the gender spectrum from queer YouTubers.

This journey continued when I went to graduate school, where I met many queer colleagues and learned about their own journeys and identities. It gave me a clearer picture of how flexible gender identities are and helped me realize that I’m non-binary. The first person I came out to was my old after-school teacher, then my old college roommates.

Coming out to my family has been one of the most challenging decisions I have had to make. Not only did my parents have traditional ideas of gender and sexuality, but they also placed my academic and professional success above all else. The idea of the model minority in my family meant that I needed to focus on my academics and career, and my goal was to be able to show my worth to my family and my community. It felt as though my identity was unimportant to these expectations.

However, even if personal identity doesn’t seem like a priority in my family and cultural community, it is still a vital part of me that I want to be acknowledged and embraced. When I came out to my parents, there was no big discussion on the matter. My mother made a flippant joke about a future wife and kids, to which I responded with “or any partner, and I might not have kids.” My parents had laughed about it and agreed that I might not have a spouse or kids. I explained to my parents that I didn’t really identify as male or female.

My parents have been supportive, but cultural and language differences make it hard to fully understand my identity. When using “they/them” pronouns for non-binary friends, a typical response from my parents is: “Is this person multiple people?” or “Does this person have multiple personalities?” Part of the confusion comes from differences in language between English and Chinese, my parents’ first language. In Chinese, third-person pronouns are not gender-specific in spoken form. Third-person pronouns are spoken as tā, which refers to any third-person noun. However, when written, 他, 她, 它, (all pronounced tā) refer to the object as masculine, feminine, or gender-neutral, respectively. While more recently, “X也” (tā) has been used to refer to non-binary people, the understanding of gender non-conforming people is still confusing, particularly for older generations.

While my parents’ cultural traditions can make it harder to communicate, there are also aspects of their backgrounds that make them more understanding. For example, my parents are both medical professionals, and therefore, they understand the scientific research and studies on the existence and validity of trans people. They also resided in a progressive community when they came to the United States, exposing them to diverse ethnicities, sexual orientations, and gender expressions. Furthermore, their experience with discrimination and oppression as Vietnamese refugees allow them to understand the importance of support and acceptance.

This mix of personal experiences and traditional values has given my parents a complex relationship with queerness. For instance, my parents express open support for queer people and their hostility towards anti-queer laws, but they are also worried and apprehensive when I express myself with nail polish or makeup. I know this comes from love and worry, but it also reflect the limits of their comfort. But even though they don't fully grasp my identity, they never discredited or disagreed with my explanations. Accepting who I am doesn't always mean fully understanding it.

Coming out to family is one of the most challenging choices in a queer person’s life. For queer Asian individuals, it may feel like there’s a conflict between being true to ourselves and honoring our families’ expectations. The weight of cultural and generational norms can make it feel like there's no space for queerness within the family structure. Still, I’ve found that communicating my identity to my parents has helped them see me more, even if it’s an ongoing process for them to fully embrace my identity.  If you’re on a similar journey, I know it takes a lot of courage to come out and be open about your identity, and the journey is not always linear. You deserve to not only be accepted but fully embraced and celebrated. I see you, and you are valid.